“So you took to flying.”
He finished his breakfast and pushed his plate away. “I’ve always loved flying. Helicopters, jets… prop jobs. Doesn’t matter.”
“Ever worry you’ll crash?” It scared the hell out of her just thinking of spending so much time in the air.
“Ever think you’re going to bite it when you’re driving a car?” he asked instead of answering her question.
“No, not really.”
“Same thing applies with flying. The only day I thought about crashing was the first day I was up there. After that, it didn’t cross my mind. The best way to dispose of that fear is taking the controls.”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Suit yourself. But you seem like the kind of girl who likes to take control. Might cure that height fear you have.”
“If God wanted us to fly, he’d have given us wings.”
Trent laughed. “Or pilots.”
Monica relaxed in her chair and stretched her arms over her head.
The movement caught Trent’s attention and his appreciative smile spread over his lips. He wore a T-shirt and shorts, his normal attire since she’d met him. His hair could use a trim, but he didn’t carry the surfer look from back home. “Well, Mr. Testosterone, what does one do on this island when they’re not flying tourists at death-defying heights, or cleaning up nature’s mess?”
She wasn’t sure if he had a desire to pick up where their kiss had left off the day before. He hadn’t so much as touched her since helping her into his home the night before. Of course, she was doing her best zombie interpretation at the time, and wouldn’t have been able to do much more than snore in the poor guy’s arms.
He rubbed his chin as if in thought. “There’s usually plenty of steel band music and rum concoctions to entertain on a free day.”
“Not a lot of that going on,” she said.
He swiveled in his chair, his knee nudged against hers. The contact was about as innocent as it could get, but her breath caught anyway. When his hand dropped to her thigh, she knew he hadn’t forgotten their kiss or his promise to make up for his mistake about Jack. “If you come up with some cheesy line about making our own music…”
He slid his hand down the back of her thigh, gripped her chair, and slid it closer.
She caught herself against his legs, and met his sudden stare.
“How about we skip the lines?” he said.
The heat in the room shot up ten degrees. Both of his palms were against her thighs but they had yet to do anything but sit there.
“Lines are for people who don’t know what they want,” she told him.
A smirk played on his lips.
“That doesn’t define us.”
No. She’d pictured him close since he told her his name. Monica slid her hands over his and moved them up her legs. She didn’t like lines or games. “Do we have a definition?”
He took her lead, moving his hands along her bare skin, sending tendrils of anticipation over every nerve in her body. A squeal escaped her lips when he gripped her hips and plucked her off the chair and into his lap as if she weighed nothing. She gripped his shoulders for balance and enjoyed the feel of his hands holding her ass.
His clever move had her straddling him and terribly needy without even a kiss. “We don’t need a definition.” Trent’s heated breath blew across her lips, his stare so charged she couldn’t look away.
Monica leaned forward, not wanting to wait for whatever made him hesitate.
Trent, the big tease, leaned back. “Are you sure?”
She didn’t answer. Her lips met his, all heat and tongue and it was Trent’s turn to moan.
Everywhere he touched was on fire. His hand found skin under her T-shirt and skimmed up her waist, burning a path to her br**sts and through her bra.
“You feel amazing,” he managed to say as his lips left hers to kiss her jaw, her neck.
The hard pack of his muscles met her palms.
“So soft,” he uttered.
Monica wiggled closer; the chair quickly became an obstacle to the pleasure of pressing her body closer to his.
His lips found the sensitive spot behind her ear and the quivering that was hovering low in her belly turned into something palpable. “Oh,” she whispered.
Trent released a soft chuckle and repeated the kiss to her neck.
Somewhere in the back of her head, Monica heard Ginger bark. Trent was lifting her off his lap and placing her on the kitchen counter. She reached for his shirt, to help rid him of the barrier.
Ginger barked again.
Damn dog.
One second Trent was reaching to remove her shirt, her only thought was how quickly they could cover each other skin to skin, the next Trent was pulling her shirt back down and pulling her from the counter.
That’s when Monica heard the noise.
People. Kids… Ginger barking.
Monica met Trent’s smoky gaze. He was breathing as hard as she was.
“Trent?” someone called from the hall leading to the front door.
“Company?” Monica whispered.
He ran a hand over her hair and pulled his own shirt down. They didn’t have time to recover much in the way of composure before a family piled into the room.
Ginger ran around the room, a playful bark in her throat. A man Monica recognized was half carrying a woman into Trent’s home.
“Reynard, Kiki?”
One look from Reynard to Trent and Monica knew the man understood exactly what they’d interrupted.